Chapter 8
The pale light of dawn, like a cold probe, pierced through the clouds and silently infiltrated the study, dispelling the meager warmth created by the oil lamp. Serena remained slumped on the carpet, her back against the hard edge of the desk, her body cold and numb, as if even her blood had frozen.
The slight stinging sensation at the tip of her right middle finger was still vivid, even carrying a strange burning sensation, as if the touch of Lucien's lips and the wet, slippery lick of his tongue were branded deep into her skin, never to be erased. She raised her hand, staring blankly at the tiny, now congealed wound, a wave of nausea washing over her.
She didn't know what the "potion" in the jar was, how Lucien had acquired this strange knowledge, or why Lucien had done what he did. The fear of the unknown, like a cold tide, crashed against her already fragile mental defenses.
"Miss? Miss, are you inside?" Anna's tearful call and urgent knocking on the door came again, startling Serena from her cold despair.
She snapped back to reality, struggling to stand, but found her legs too weak to obey her commands. She gripped the desk, struggling to sit up, taking several deep breaths to barely suppress the sob in her throat and the trembling in her body. She couldn't let anyone see anything amiss, absolutely not.
"Come in." She tried to keep her voice steady, but it still sounded a little hoarse.
Anna pushed open the door and entered, her face full of anxiety and worry: "Miss! Are you alright? I knocked on the door several times... Oh! Why are you soaked? Quickly change your clothes, you'll catch a cold!" She noticed Serena's disheveled appearance and pale face and exclaimed.
"I'm fine." Serena avoided Anna's outstretched hand and steadied herself by holding onto the edge of the table. "Where's that stranger?"
“As you instructed, I gave him some food and medicine and sent him away,” Anna quickly replied, adding, “However… before he left, he secretly slipped this to the gatekeeper, saying that he must give it to you.” She handed over a small, hard object wrapped in oilcloth.
Serena's heart skipped a beat. She took the object; it felt slightly heavy in her hand. She waved her hand, signaling Anna to go out and prepare hot water and clean clothes.
After the study door closed again, she quickly unrolled the oilcloth. Inside was an antique-style bronze badge, engraved with a soaring nightingale holding an olive branch in its beak. On the back of the badge was a small letter – “N”.
Nightingale? Olive branch? N?
Serena frowned deeply. She had never seen this badge before, nor did she recognize any person or organization with the code name "N". The appearance of this badge, like that of the strange, wounded man, was shrouded in mystery.
Is this yet another trick by Lucien? Is it to unsettle her and make her suspicious? Or... is there really a third party trying to contact her at this delicate moment?
She clutched the badge tightly in her hand, the cold metal digging painfully into her palm. The situation seemed more complicated than she had imagined.
The shadow of Lucien has not yet dissipated, and a new fog has already descended.
She walked to the window, pushed it open, and a cool morning breeze rushed in, carrying the scent of earth and withered plants. She looked at the ravaged hillside, where the tenant farmers were still busy clearing away the debris left by the hail.
Just then, she saw Lucien appear at the edge of the slope. He had changed into a clean set of dark gray coarse cloth clothes, but still looked out of place. He was holding a small dark brown earthenware pot and was bending down, seemingly carefully and individually watering the liquid inside the fallen "Moonlight Dust" seedlings.
His movements were focused and steady, like those of a true, experienced gardener.
Serena's heart leaped into her throat. That was... a "potion" mixed with her blood?
She stared intently at his movements, at the seedlings that had come into contact with the liquid and were already on the verge of death.
Miraculously, just as the morning light completely bathed the earth, those previously withered and broken silver-green leaves seemed... to stand up slightly... in an extremely subtle way? That color, symbolizing vitality, seemed to have become slightly more intense, almost imperceptible to the naked eye?
Is it an illusion? Or is it a hallucination caused by her excessive longing to see hope?
Serena couldn't be sure. But that subtle change was like a lifeline, finally giving her almost suffocating heart a moment to breathe.
Whatever the "potion" was, and however dark Lucien's motives were, at least... her "Moonlight Dust" seemed to have a real chance of survival.
Just then, Lucien, who was on the slope, seemed to sense her gaze, slowly straightened up, turned his head, and looked precisely at the window of the study where she was.
Across a field of wreckage and the chilly morning light, their eyes met once more.
Lucien's face was expressionless, calm and still. But his eyes, just like last night, were terrifyingly deep.
He said nothing, but turned to her and, very slowly and meaningfully, curled the corner of his lips into a smile.
Then, he withdrew his gaze, no longer looking at her, turned around, and calmly walked away from the slope, disappearing at the end of the manor path.
Serena's fingers, gripping the window frame, turned white from the force.
She looked at the hillside that seemed to have regained a glimmer of life, then looked down at the cold nightingale badge in her palm, and finally, her gaze fell on the tiny wound on her fingertip.
Since that dawn, Sunset Manor seemed to have been plunged into two completely opposite forces.
A vibrant, almost supernatural vitality surged forth. The eerie "potion" mixed with Serena's blood displayed astonishing effects. The "Moonlight Dust" seedlings, which had been on the verge of death in the hailstorm, not only miraculously survived but also recovered and grew at an astonishing rate. Their silvery-green leaves unfurled, thicker than ever before, gleaming with an almost eerie softness in the sunlight. Even the other crops, which had only been experimentally planted, and the old grapevines, seemed to have received some kind of nourishment, growing vigorously. The tenant farmers and workers on the estate whispered among themselves, attributing all this to the young lady's "good fortune" and "Midas touch," their awe of Serena tinged with a near-superstitious worship.
The other force was an invisible, intangible yet omnipresent sense of confinement. Lucien hadn't left; he had merely moved from the open into the shadows, like a shadow blending into the manor's backdrop. Serena didn't know his exact location, but she could always feel the gaze of those deep purple eyes—when she patrolled the fields, when she consulted with the steward, and even when she was alone in her study late at night. He no longer approached her, no longer uttered those chilling words, but his very presence was a silent declaration and a form of oppression.
He began to intervene more deeply in the affairs of the estate, in a way that Serena couldn't openly object to. The "old farmer" he had placed there became his spokesperson, frequently offering various "suggestions": expanding the planting area of "Moonlight Dust" and reducing inputs for other crops; "optimizing" the details of the new winemaking process; and even beginning to "suggest" adjusting the rent-to-labor ratio for tenant farmers and the wage structure for workers. These suggestions seemed to be for the sake of greater profits for the estate, but Serena keenly sensed that they were subtly steer the estate's economic lifeline and the hearts of its people in a direction she was gradually losing control of.
She tried to resist and reaffirm her authority. But each time, she encountered various "unexpected" and "difficult" events—the merchant guild suddenly broke the agreement; the convoy transporting goods was harassed by unidentified bandits; and even some discordant voices began to emerge within the manor, questioning whether she was "too conservative" and not as "bold" as Lucien's (whose plan was conveyed through the old farmer).
Serena was utterly exhausted. She felt like an insect caught in a spider's web, each struggle only tightening the sticky threads around her. Lucien didn't even need to lift a finger; he could make her struggle to move simply by subtly manipulating the threads from the shadows.
The nightingale badge vanished without a trace, as if it had never existed. The injured stranger also seemed to have never been there. This made her even more suspicious that it might have all been a staged performance by Lucien, designed to plant seeds of doubt and uncertainty in her heart.
She began to suffer from insomnia, often waking up from nightmares even in the dead of night when she was exhausted. In her dreams, a pair of deep purple eyes would always gaze at her from the darkness, sometimes cold, sometimes burning, sometimes with a cruel smile. The tiny wound on her fingertip, which had long since healed, would also ache faintly in her dreams, as if the sensation of that night had never disappeared.
She grew increasingly silent, and her once bright blue eyes, filled with hope, were now often shrouded in a lingering gloom and wariness. She still handled the estate's affairs daily, but that initial enthusiasm and dedication had been replaced by a heavy, necessary maneuvering for survival.
She would occasionally "bump into" Lucien on the estate. He might be helping repair farm tools, or he might be talking quietly with a tenant farmer. Each time they met, he would stop what he was doing, look at her with a calm yet all-knowing gaze, and nod slightly as a greeting. He never overstepped his bounds, and his behavior was even "respectful," but Serena could see in the deepest part of his eyes an undisguised sense of control, like that of someone looking at prey in a cage.
He was enjoying the process. He was enjoying the torment of her knowing the danger but being powerless to escape, enjoying the fear beneath her efforts to maintain a calm facade, enjoying the booming of her career with his "help," while she drifted further and further away from true control.
That evening, Serena came alone to the hillside where the "Moonlight Dust" plants were growing best. The silvery-green plants swayed in the setting sun, emitting a delicate fragrance, which should have been a symbol of her joy and achievement, but at this moment it only made her feel a pang of unease.
She crouched down and gently brushed her fingers across a thick leaf, feeling its cool touch.
“It’s growing very well,” a deep voice said behind her.
Serena froze, without turning around. She knew who it was.
Lucien walked over to her and together they looked down at the vibrant hillside. The setting sun cast a long shadow of his, almost completely enveloping her.
"It seems our 'cooperation' has been very successful," he continued, his tone flat, revealing neither joy nor anger.
Serena remained silent, her lips pressed tightly together.
Lucien turned his head, his gaze falling on her tense profile and slightly trembling eyelashes. He looked at her for a long time, so long that Serena could hardly bear the invisible pressure.
Then, slowly, in an almost whispered voice, he said something that nearly froze her blood:
“This manor suits you perfectly, Serena.” His voice held a strange, chilling tenderness. “Quiet, beautiful, and secluded…”
He leaned down slightly, his breath brushing against her ear:
What do you think?
Serena suddenly stood up, staggered back two steps, her face ashen, and looked at him with a mixture of fear and apprehension.
Lucien straightened up, his face still expressionless, but his deep purple eyes clearly reflected her terrified appearance, as if he were admiring a beautiful painting.
He didn't approach her again, but simply looked at her deeply, as if trying to etch her current disheveled state into his heart. Then, he turned and calmly walked away, bathed in the afterglow of the setting sun.
Serena stood rooted to the spot, her body ice-cold. The evening breeze rustled the leaves of the "Moonlight Dust" tree, but to her it sounded like the cold echo of dragging iron chains from a cage.
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